This woman had a slender body, slightly emaciated.
From this angle, Baili An couldn't clearly see the woman's face, only glimpsing her delicate neck, occasionally visible through her soft long hair, as clear and pale as porcelain.
And within the rustling sleeves, that right hand marred with scars…
Cold strands of hair carrying a hint of the night's chill lightly brushed Baili An's cheeks.
The temperature was very cool, yet extremely soft and tender.
For some reason, Baili An suddenly felt saddened, his fingertips tightening with an uncomfortable twinge in his heart.
The small sword slipped into his sleeve as if possessed…
He reached out his hand towards that figure.
His fingertips had not yet touched her when, in the scattering of the wind, as if across an age of silent years, she slowly turned her half face.
That side of her face, under the backlight of the silver butterfly, possessed an indescribable tranquility and sanctity.
